Release
by deleerium
Summary: Rou. Could be seen as a sequel to Catch for timeline reference.


"If this were," Doumeki says.

Watanuki's hand twitches at the angry heat in those three words, fingers tightening around the pipe's stem, his gaze fixed on an indefinable point in the darkness.

Doumeki sets down his glass and stands up. "If this were another world," he says, turning his back on Watanuki, "you would have made this meal at my temple."

The air is so still that the smoke from Watanuki's pipe drips in downward spirals, blanketing him in gray. He does not move until the sound of Doumeki's footsteps can no longer be heard. He lowers his arm and taps the ashes into a tray with fingers that tremble. "G-glutton," he whispers, but there is no one to hear the broken word.

...

Watanuki begins the next day with stiff resolution, denial written in the sharp edges of his welcoming smile and the way his eye twitches each time the shop bell jingles. But each jingle is a stranger and with each stranger, Watanuki's smile grows more brittle. The day ends with a silence that stretches through evening into midnight. Watanuki stares into the darkness under the sakura tree until dawn turns the summer moss pink.

The second day is no different. Or the third. At the end of the first week, he stops counting. He stops sleeping at the end of the second.

...

It is late in the afternoon when the shop bell jingles. Watanuki tightens the arm thrown over his eyes and curls his body against the back of the chaise. The arm hides the lines of pain etched at the corners of his eyes, the black lashes cradled by dark rings of exhaustion.

Then he hears it - the deep rumble of a familiar greeting and the bright spark of deference in the girls' welcome. He scrambles up from the chaise in a flurry of dull silk, fumbling for his glasses - for a moment every bit the awkward teen he still resembles. A shadow looms on the other side of the shoji screen and Watanuki clutches the folds of his kimono together at his throat.

"Oi," Doumeki says from the other side of the door, years of gentle patience in the single word.

Watanuki stiffens and opens his mouth, but his sharp retort is trapped by a clot of emotion that threatens to choke him. He swallows hard and takes refuge in a familiar fury. "Don't call me 'oi', you j-jerk,' he says, but the words tumble out unsteady and tainted with relief. He covers his mouth with his hand, fingers digging into his cheek.

Doumeki's hand tightens so hard around the door frame the wood creaks, but he does not open the screen. Instead he looks down and rattles the bags he's holding. "I brought hanpen and gobouten for oden."

Watanuki drops his hand and crosses the room with a flick of black and blue silk, stiffening his shoulders as he shoves open the door. There are uncounted miles of silence between them, the distance covered equally by Doumeki's blank stare and Watanuki's frown. "What are you standing around for?" Watanuki snaps, "take it to the kitchen already."

Doumeki stares at him, gaze moving from the sleepless smudges under Watanuki's eyes to the bare skin of his throat, exposed by the mangled silk of his kimono. He sighs and tugs the layers of fabric back into place, his knuckles grazing a collarbone that is too prominent under pale skin.

Watanuki continues to frown at him, unflinching under the touch.

Doumeki drops his hand. "Do you know what changes the course of a river?"

Watanuki blinks, the frown fading into quiet confusion.

The corner of Doumeki's mouth lifts and he turns away, already moving down the hallway. "Time," he says. "With enough time, every river changes its own course."

...

Their routine is easy to find again. Doumeki orders and Watanuki complains, groceries are bought, sake is served, and the pipe is smoked almost daily. Each step is familiar, each motion routine, each of them carefully avoiding anything new.

It is the silences that betray them.

The words spoken to break them are rare - snapped and grunted - reminiscent of their shared adolescence. The silences grow from tolerable, to heavy, to strained. Weighed down by things that are not spoken. Littered with actions not taken.

Finally, there is an evening that contains only shabu shabu, sake and smoke - not a word is spoken. Silence joins them for dinner, consuming every course.

Watanuki flinches at every sound.

Doumeki takes the sake with him when he retires.

...

Doumeki crosses his arms and leans against the counter, his gaze level and fixed on Watanuki.

Watanuki is wearing white trimmed in crimson, the ties of his apron pinching his narrow waist as he glides around the kitchen. He twitches when he finally settles, gaze stubbornly fixed on the rice he's forming between his fingers. Hands precise as he slices elegant strips of nori. "This is stupid," he mutters.

Doumeki remains silent.

Watanuki glances over his shoulder, then looks away too quickly. "It's too cold for a picnic."

Doumeki grunts and disappears down the hallway. He returns wearing his long winter coat.

Watanuki snorts and carefully arranges the last nori in the giant bento trays before stacking them and snapping the lid shut. He doesn't look up, just takes the wrapping cloth from Doumeki's outstretched hand and carefully wraps and knots the cover around the stacked boxes. His hands trace the outline under the cloth.

"We used to do this alot, ne?" Watanuki asks, his question uncertain.

Doumeki nods and picks up the bento, staring at him expectantly.

Watanuki rolls his eyes, wipes his hands and unfastens his apron. He follows Doumeki out of the kitchen, across the porch and down to the tiny garden.

The path has already been swept clean of fallen leaves, bamboo mats spread in the patch of weak winter sun. Watanuki kneels and pours two cups of tea from the thermos, handing one up to Doumeki. He picks up his own cup and cradles the hot drink in his hands before taking a careful sip. He starts, looking up when he feels the weight of Doumeki's coat being draped over his shoulders, enveloping him in warmth. Doumeki sets the bento down between them and stretches out on the mat. Staring at Watanuki over the rim of his cup.

Watanuki busies himself untying the bento, his fingers hovering over the knot. His lips are pinched tight as if repressing a string of complaints, half-truths and derisions. He opens his mouth to speak but the words hang, abandoned, suspended by the sudden stillness of his hands and the weight of the words that are finally spoken. "What you said before, about 'if this were another world'?"

Doumeki stares at Watanuki's profile. "Yes," he says, the word excruciatingly gentle.

Watanuki goes painfully still, hands frozen over the lid of the bento. He swallows. Parts his lips. Swallows again. And flinches when Doumeki touches the hem of his kimono. He looks up.

Doumeki holds the silk carefully between his fingers, thumb tracing the blood red border. "Yes, I meant more than just cooking."

The small garden is filled with the sound of Watanuki's blush as he drops his gaze and takes the lid off the bento. He makes unnecessary adjustments to the precisely arranged food in the top tray and hands it to Doumeki without looking.

"Thank you for the meal," Doumeki says, his usually flat voice warm at the edges. He begins to eat.

The silence that follows is an old friend, warm and accepting and fat with patience. Until Doumeki plucks a strip of unagi from Watanuki's tray. He smirks when Watanuki smacks at his hand and growls, "You already have four." Doumeki does not look contrite and promptly steals another.

Watanuki grumbles under his breath and tugs Doumeki's coat tighter around his shoulders.

...

That evening there is careful attention paid to the empty space that sits between them, each measuring the distance as an easy reach of one arm. It is late, but the space remains consistent. Watanuki's pipe has gone cold and Doumeki's sake has gone mostly untouched.

"Watanuki," Doumeki murmurs, but receives no answer. He turns to look at him - and sighs. Watanuki is slumped against a post, fingers curled around his pipe, bangs brushing the bridge of his nose, lashes already sleeping in the tired bruises under his eyes.

"Idiot," he whispers as he leans over and scoops the sleeping boy into his arms. Watanuki twitches and makes a sound that reminds Doumeki of birds in winter, but he doesn't wake, his body dead weight against Doumeki's chest as Doumeki carries him carefully down the porch and into moonlit corridors.

...

"I don't know what to do," Watanuki whispers.

Doumeki breathes out as if he's been holding it his entire life. "Anything," he murmurs, the tips of his fingers grazing Watanuki's cheek in the darkness. "Do anything you like."

FIN


End file.
